


Hoedown Throwdown (Boom Boom Clap)

by pirateygoodness



Category: Community
Genre: Cowboys & Cowgirls, F/F, Paintball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-19
Updated: 2011-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The story of how Annie lost her skirt, and how Britta helped.</em> <strong>Spoilers for 2.23, "A Fist Full of Paintballs.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoedown Throwdown (Boom Boom Clap)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [](http://robotjen.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**robotjen**](http://robotjen.dreamwidth.org/) for beta-reading.

In the beginning, it's chaos.

All Britta remembers is the mad rush of people, and for once her size comes in handy. She wades headlong into the crowd, ducking under arms and slipping between people, and when she emerges from the struggle she has three pistols, two holsters looped around her neck and the third slung across her hips. Her wrist is throbbing, where someone tried to grab at it, and she can feel a bruise blooming against her ribs.

Slowly, time narrows into two periods: _before the game_ , and _now_. She watches, horrified, as people she knows - people she took Anthropology with - start to turn on each other, guns high, paint splashing in a riot of orange and yellow and green.

Britta takes a step back, turning to run. The library was empty when she left it, before all of this. If it's still abandoned, it's the best place she knows to find cover and make a stand.

As she turns, something hits her shoulder, and she turns to face it gun-first, shoulders tense. It's only Annie, but Britta almost fires anyway, before she catches herself. Her pulse is racing.

"Here," Britta says, voice hard. She loops her spare pistols off her shoulder and passes them to Annie. "Take these."

"Where are the others?" Annie says, eyes wide. "Britta, what -"

Britta shakes her head. There's no time for that. "Take them," she says. "We've got to move."

*

The ground floor is chaos. There's nothing but bodies and paint and the clatter of running feet, echoing all around them. The worst of it is near the cafeteria, and they don't dare cut past it to check on the library, to find the others. Instead, they move towards higher ground.

The path upstairs to the second floor is risky, but not for long. Annie's a confident shot and Britta covers her, until they've taken the first part of the second-floor hallway, cutting a swath towards the dance studios and the science labs.

As they move, Annie keeps half-stumbling, her knees getting brought up short by her skirt. It's slowing them down, and Britta's been able to pick up the slack for now, but they've had a couple of dangerous near-misses already. After the fourth time Annie's legs get caught and she sways, catching herself against the wall, she sets her jaw and sighs. In one swift movement, she finds the hem of her skirt and tears at the seam until it gives, splitting up to her thigh.

Britta wants to stop and be impressed, but there's no time for that. The sound of gunfire is loud in the hallway around them, coming from what sounds like everywhere. They need to get to cover.

"Okay," she says, nodding grimly at the end of the hallway.

There are people approaching, close enough that they can see the splatter of crossfire along the wall. Annie smiles, then winks, looking for all the world like she was born for this.

It's only two - the remains of the chess club, sweaty and shaking, hats crooked. They're outmatched, and it's over too quickly. Three green shots from Britta, to the belly and shoulders of the first, and two bright pink rounds from Annie's guns to the other, square over his heart.

Someday, Britta's going to ask how Annie got to be such a good shot.

"We need _cover_ ," Annie whispers, harsh and frustrated across the hall, as she holsters her second pistol.

Britta nods, grimly. They've been lucky so far, but there are two ends to this hallway, and they only need to get caught under fire from both sides the once. The library is around the corner, down two flights of stairs, and at this rate, Britta's not sure if they'll make it there in one piece. Annie looks around, scanning the room numbers like she's been in this part of the school before.

"There," she says, pointing at the next door down. "Chem lab."

"Right."

Britta moves to a crouch beside the door, next to the hinges. Annie stands straight and peers through the window, her skirt swirling around her ankles. "Three of them," she murmurs against the safety glass, almost to herself. "Two on the south side, near the chalkboard. One at the window."

Britta's thumb moves to the safety on her pistol, clicking it off. Her trigger finger is tense against the barrel of her gun. "Ready when you are."

Annie's free hand moves to the doorknob and turns, just until the door is ajar and swings free. It all happens fast. She reaches for her second pistol, the one at her thigh, and kicks the door open, hard. Then everything narrows to shouting and shots, Britta firing and firing while their opponents scramble for their weapons, too late. It's over almost before it starts, and it ends with Annie and Britta in the middle of the room, pistols drawn, back to back.

"Whatever," one of them says, kicking at a chair. He took the heaviest fire, and there are pink rounds splashed across his back, his sweater ruined. Britta recognizes him from her tap class. "Paintball sucks."

"Hey," Britta says, as they turn to go. "Leave your guns."

They do, and Britta starts counting out ammunition, while Annie checks the perimeter.

"All clear," Annie says. "We'll be okay here for a while."

Britta nods, slides half the bullets across the table to Annie. "Good."

Annie relaxes a little bit, her shoulders slumping. She's got one gun back in its holster, but the other is still cradled loosely in her palm. She reloads like a wanted woman, fast and practiced, and slips the extra ammunition into a pouch at her side. Britta raises an eyebrow.

"What?" Annie says, suddenly defensive. "My wallet didn't go with this outfit."

Britta shrugs and looks away, reloading her own pistol. Someday, she might also ask how Annie got so good at loading a six-shooter. She tucks a second gun into the waistband of her jeans, at the small of her back, and when she looks up Annie is staring at her. "What?" she says. Instinctively, a hand flies up to her hair, patting gently. She gives herself a moment for the self-loathing over her own culturally conditioned vanity to pass. "Do I have paint on me?"

Annie shakes her head, _no_. But she doesn't stop watching Britta, mouth pink and cheeks flushed, like she's noticing her for the first time. Britta can feel herself start to blush. They've fooled around before, and maybe one time they had sex (Britta's still a little fuzzy on what "counts" when neither party has a penis, but whatever it was, it was really good), and Britta knows that look.

Her heart's still hammering in her chest from fighting their way through half the school to get here, and she can feel it start to beat faster. When Annie takes a step to close the distance between them, Britta doesn't move away. "You -" Annie whispers. "I like that shirt on you."

"Thanks," Britta says. She hopes it sounds casual, and not like she spent a half hour going through every plaid top in her closet and trying to figure out which one said "sexy-but-not-slutty cowgirl" the most.

Then Annie grips her lapel, and Britta stops caring what she sounds like. Annie kisses her, and Britta can hear herself sigh into it, as she lets herself enjoy it. Her hands move up to Annie's chest instinctively, because she's still not quite used to the fact that Annie's a _girl_ with _boobs_ , and the feel of soft curves instead of muscle leaves her breathless and flustered. "Annie," she murmurs, trying to be the adult.

"What?" Annie says, and pulls back. Her eyes are dark, and wide in a way that reminds Britta less of Disney and more of late-night television. "I locked the door."

"We're at school."

Annie sighs, gently. They've done this part before, too - the show of reluctance, the part where Britta points out Annie's age, and that she definitely does not have sex with girls (except for the times when she has) - at this point it's almost a ritual. They both know Britta will cave and end up with both hands cupping Annie's ass, whimpering for her, but there's something reassuring about the rules, the repetition.

It makes Britta feel like she's being seduced by someone who's almost twenty, instead of perving on a sweet, bicurious nineteen-year-old to satisfy her own not insignificant bicuriosity.

"So?" Annie says, her wrists settling at Britta's nape. Gently, she toys with the loose strands of hair there, making Britta want to shiver.

"So, I don't -" Britta shakes her head, distracted. "You're a girl. And this is bad. And we're at school."

Annie rolls her eyes. "And you banged Jeff in the fourth-floor mens' room how many -"

Britta's eyes go wide. "That's not the point. We're playing paintball."

Annie has the decency not to point out exactly how hypocritical that is, but she does give Britta a pretty hard look. Britta tries again. "I'm not-"

Annie rolls her eyes. "I know," she says. "Me neither."

Britta gives Annie half a smile, and reaches out to cup Annie's cheek in her palm. "If neither of us are, why do we keep doing this?"

"I don't know," Annie says, shrugging, and suddenly her voice reminds Britta of late-night television, too. "But I want to." She meets Britta's eyes, then lets her gaze slide down to Britta's chest, her belt buckle, her boots. "And I do know that I really like that outfit."

She hooks one finger through Britta's belt loop, experimentally. "Really?" Britta says.

Annie bites her lip. Britta's never seen her quite like this before. "Really," she whispers. The finger hooked in Britta's belt loop tugs, and Britta feels a sudden rush of power and lust, going straight to her cunt.

"What do you like about it?" she murmurs, voice coming out rough.

In reply, Annie's hands find Britta's waist and she pulls, until they're hip to hip and Annie's belly is pressed against her, their belt buckles clinking awkwardly. Britta holsters her gun, and sets her spare on the tabletop. Annie does the same, and their lips meet again, less tentatively. Annie's mouth is sweet and hot against Britta's tongue, and she kisses like she needs it, eager and uninhibited.

Britta kisses back just as fiercely, her hands shaking against Annie's chest as she tugs at the top of her blouse, baring more and more of her breasts.

When Britta breaks away, it's to duck her head down and lap at Annie's nipples. She takes one into her mouth, flicking with her tongue until Annie groans. "Oh," Annie whimpers, curling against Britta's mouth, breath warm against the top of Britta's head.

"Oh god, _do me,_ " Annie whimpers. "Do me like a cowboy." She says it in a rush, almost one word, mumbled against the top of Britta's head, like an accident. But once it's out, the words hang heavy in the air, and they both still.

Britta straightens, letting Annie's boobs rest between them, bare and slick from Britta's tongue. " _Annie_ ," she says, trying not to sound as shocked as she is. "Did you just-"

"Maybe," Annie whispers, eyes wide. It's dim here in the chemistry lab, ever since the chess club cut the lights, but Britta can still see the blush creeping across her chest. "I don't know."

Britta has this whole thing, about how gendered sexual fantasies like this just reinforce the patriarchal - and completely incorrect - idea that women must be subservient to men, and she always thought that if she was in a situation like this, she'd calmly explain that to her partner and refuse to participate. (Of course, she always thought that partner would be a man, and not a half-topless coed dressed like a cowgirl.) But here, in the chemistry lab, with Annie flushed and a bit disheveled in her arms, her principles are surprisingly unimportant. The important things are Annie's boobs, the nervous, hopeful way she's watching Britta, and the slick, heavy feeling between Britta's legs.

"Alright," Britta whispers, nervous and girlish. Then, more forcefully, "Alright, little lady."

She kisses Annie again, harder, and both of her hands reach down to cup Annie's ass. She leans forward, using her weight to walk both of them back until Britta's hands hit a desk drawer, and Annie's back bumps against the edge of a lab bench.

"God," Annie whispers, in this breathy voice that Britta can hardly believe. " _God_."

She lifts one leg up, wrapping it around Britta's hip, and Britta knows that move. She knows it because she's done it before, with guys, and there's something about having it done to her that just gets to Britta, making her so turned on that she feels almost drunk. She slips one hand into the space between their bodies, pressing against Annie's cunt, through her panties. With the other, she lifts, until Annie's backed up against the bench and pinned there, both legs wrapped around Britta's waist.

Annie's heavier than Britta thought she'd be, and it's awkward, holding her up like this. Britta shifts, trying to support her better, and as she does she thrusts her hips against Annie's, hard and once. " _Yes_ ," Annie hisses, clutching at Britta's shoulders.

It almost makes Britta feel like a sexy cowboy. It definitely makes her feel powerful, thrusting her hips with a woman wrapped around her, on school property. She thrusts again, on purpose this time, pressing her hand into Annie's cunt with her hips. Annie gasps. Britta starts to rock, moving against her gently, a little bit awed at the way Annie's gasps turn to something low and throaty, and her head lolls back. She wants to keep it up forever, or at least until Annie finishes.

It's more awkward than it looks, though, and takes a lot more strength than Britta can muster. Too soon, Britta's arms are burning and her thighs are shaking with effort. She slips her hand out from between their bodies to brace herself, but misses.

The next thing she knows, she's swearing, the word _fuck_ echoing too-loud in the empty room, and they're falling over. Annie's the one who catches them, one foot still wrapped around Britta's waist and the other shaky but planted on the ground, her arms braced against the tabletop. Britta huffs out a laugh, then relaxes into Annie.

They both hear it - the harsh sound of tearing fabric, as Annie's skirt splits even further at the seam.

"Oh," Britta says, suddenly back in reality and realizing what she's done. "Annie, I'm so sorry, I -"

"It's okay," Annie says, putting both feet on the ground. "It's okay. Just -" she tugs at Britta's arm, looking down at the floor beneath the lab bench suggestively. "Just forget about it, alright?"

Annie takes off her skirt and kneels on it, on the floor. Britta forgets about it.

She kneels to meet Annie, feeling a little bit overdressed in jeans and a shirt when Annie's not wearing much more than boyshorts and garters. Annie smiles, eyes dark with arousal, and reaches up to unbutton Britta's blouse. Her hands are cool and tentative against Britta's chest, and she touches Britta like she's something delicate, so gently that Britta can hardly feel it. It's only when her hands find Britta's sensitive spot and she groans, low and throaty, that Annie's hands start to get more confident.

She unhooks Britta's bra one-handed, and cups both breasts in her hands, squeezing until Britta all but pounces on her, suddenly eager to have them both horizontal. Bitta uses her weight, shifting until Annie is on her back, Britta's hand on her breast, the other fumbling between her legs and looking for a way to bare skin.

In the end, it takes Annie's help, hands shaky, to wrestle her boyshorts down enough for Britta to touch her.

She's never done this before, is the thing. She's thought about it, and there was that one time she and Annie almost did, but she's never had her hand on another woman's cunt before, and the feeling of slick, too-warm skin and coarse hair is both familiar and awkward at once. She's straddling Annie's thigh, one hand supporting herself and the other between Annie's legs, and suddenly she has no idea what to do. So she just touches, waiting until she hits the right spot to make Annie sigh, breathy and feminine. Britta touches there, again, and Annie whimpers.

Eventually, Britta settles into a rhythm that Annie seems to like, tracing little circles with her fingertips, hard and then soft, against her. Annie's still touching Britta's boobs, finding all of her sensitive spots, and Britta finds herself rocking against Annie's thigh, pressing the seam of her jeans into her own clit. It's not the best position for this, and mostly reminds her of high school and backseats and other unsexy places. But before Britta can think of something more dignified to do, her hips buck down hard and she comes, in her jeans, a shuddering, groaning mess against Annie's leg.

"Oh god," Annie whispers, her voice high and breathy, her back arched. "Did you just-"

Her question ends on a moan, as Britta's fingers start to move faster. "Yeah," Britta says, shyly. "Yeah, I did." She remembers Annie's voice, _do me like a cowboy_ , and keeps talking. "You alright with that, missy?"

Annie shudders again, bucking against Britta's fingers. "Come on," Britta says, and she means it. "Ride me like a pony."

" _Oh,_ " Annie says, arching up. "More."

"Faster," Britta says, voice low. "Show me you're a rodeo queen."

Annie's lips part, silently at first, and then she comes, sticky against Britta's hand, her cries echoing against the walls of the chemistry lab. Instinctively, Britta's free hand feels for her gun, only to find an empty holster. But if anyone out there hears the noise, they don't come looking just then. Britta appreciates the courtesy.

"Uh," Annie says, and Britta suddenly remembers that her hand is still down Annie's underwear.

"Oh," Britta says, and it's her turn to blush. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay, I -" Annie smiles, and reaches up to tug at Britta's pigtails. "That was nice."

"Yeah?"

Annie nods, leaning up to kiss her. "Yeah."

Britta gets a sudden, awful thought. "But not nice enough that you're going to tell-"

Annie shakes her head. "Of course not."

"Okay," Britta says, relaxing. "Good."

She stands, and gives Annie a hand up. They get dressed in silence, Britta trying not to notice the way that Annie keeps looking at her, or how good Annie looks after sex.

"Oh," Annie says, looking down at her skirt. It's dusty, and when she picks it up, Britta realizes it's also sticky, from the both for them and whatever was on the floor. It's more than a little ruined.

"It's okay," Britta says. "Stay like that. You'll be able to run better."

Annie smiles, and suddenly she looks sweet and nineteen again. "You just want to see me in my garters, don't you?"

Britta smiles back. "Maybe."

Annie blushes.

That's when they finally hear it - the patter of shoes in the hall, and the familiar sound of paintball guns firing, hitting home. They both reach for their weapons, instinctively. Britta shakes her head at Annie. "It's okay," she says. "I've got this."

"But -"

"Just stay safe," Britta says. She double-checks her pistol, clicking the safety off. "I'll come back for you."

Annie nods. Britta makes it to the door before she feels a hand on her wrist, and Annie's there, looking up at her, eyes wide. "Wait," she says.

Before Britta can reply, Annie's kissing her square on the mouth, arms around her neck, and Britta really does feel like a cowboy.

"Don't worry," she says against Annie's mouth, more confidently than she feels. "I'm coming back."

"You better," Annie says, fiercely.

She steps away, and lets Britta go. As Britta walks away, gun drawn, she can't shake the tight feeling in her chest, and the sense that this is some sort of ending. Setting her jaw, she does her best to ignore it.

This is war, and Britta's a gunslinger. There's no time for romance, or fancy manners. She's got a job to do.

This is paintball.


End file.
